


Revelations

by fragile-teacup (Mrs_Gene_Hunt)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Canon Compliant, Drinking, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Smut, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24372211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Gene_Hunt/pseuds/fragile-teacup
Summary: A ficlet written for the FannibalFest #WhiskeyBottomWill challenge. I really enjoyed writing this.Separate from my Marriage 'verse.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 32
Kudos: 225
Collections: Whiskey Bottom Will





	Revelations

‘I want you.’

A hoarse whisper against blood-tacky skin and a shudder that he feels as his own.

‘No. Wait.’ Will snaps the words out. 

One beat. Two.

Then a panicked push back against the cool white stone of their Cuban villa, and a desperate, stumbling retreat. The escape isn’t new. But this - this is. Bewildering to contemplate the possibility of a tectonic shift.

_We are a zero sum game. Is he changing the rules?_

***

The spiteful sting of the shower jets helps a little. But it’s pitiful punishment.

 _As if it could be washed away._ The stalk, the rending of flesh; a shared experience of intimacy that should never have been repeated. No convenient cliff this time - the fall will be slow, the end inevitable. Nothing to do but wait in expectant resentment. Will stomps into the snug, swipes the whiskey decanter and a glass, heads over to the couch and clutches his prize like a shield. 

It’s been a while since he last sought liquid oblivion. Only twice in three years. The first time, listening to the mocking crackle of fine writing paper in the fireplace, Molly’s steady-in-sleep breathing a chastisement. And later, the banality of emptying a cheap bottle in the anonymity of a Baltimore hotel room, weathering judgmental looks the morning after. Now he’s going for a hat trick. 

***

‘I never took you for a coward, Will.’

Honeyed fire in his throat, a curse on his lips. ‘GIve me a minute.’

Hannibal moves through the room, graceful defiance. ‘I’ve given you significantly more than one.’

‘Don’t be obtuse. Just go.’

‘Not this time.’

Will sputters, grins mirthlessly. ‘Oh right, because you’ve let me be _so many other times._ ’

That is, of course, ignored. ‘Why does honesty scare you? Lies never did.’

Holding the decanter aloft, Will tips it, considers the figure he sees refracted through crystal. Now blurred through golden brown, now dissected by light. A mosaic of a monster. But it’s the man who threatens. Despicable of him to want in _that_ way.

As if they were a match.

As if they had been born to _fuck_ and _mate._

As if Will has _yearned_ all along without understanding _how._

‘Lies are pretty baubles,’ he muses, twisting his wrist to change the angle, admiring the sparks. ‘Prisms of truths. Honesty is a honed weapon.’

The figure looms larger, spilling over the edges of its crystal cage. ‘Do you think I wish to hurt you?’

‘I think you would drink me dry.’ Will sets down the decanter and drains his glass. ‘Like so.’

With a hum of amusement, Hannibal comes to sit beside him. ‘An intriguing thought.’

‘Come on,’ Will scoffs, turning. Towards, not away. Hopelessly drawn, always. ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t wondered how I taste.’ 

Unwelcome, the memory that flares, of an elegant dining table in an otherworldly apartment. It prompts a half-hearted glower. Liquor-lax, he allows the removal of his glass, the capturing of his hand.

‘I have wondered. I have dreamed.’ The huskiness is back. It makes Will _ache._

The whiskey has prised him from fear’s clutching fingers. He lifts his gaze and he’s caught again, trapped in amber. But maybe it doesn’t matter.

‘Well then.’

Breathtaking, the way they bleed into each other. Lips and tongues cling; hands move deftly in intent, rupturing the spaces between. Baring to stroke and rake and bite. When Will’s chest brushes Hannibal’s, he _whimpers._ Nipples peak, reddened to sensitivity by curling hair and firm muscle. A teasing nip at his lower lip. His cock swells. The decanter glints knowingly. 

‘Oh.’ 

‘What?’ A whisper against his mouth before it’s ravaged anew. 

Winds one hand in Hannibal’s hair, the other fumbling desperately at his fly. Breaks free to gasp, ‘Tell you later.’

More important to grab with arms and legs, tugging that gorgeous weight down on top of him. 

Teeth at his throat, a testing graze. ‘Tell me now.’ A hand on his waist, exploring planes and curves. 

‘Just - I thought drink was meant to dull the senses.’

‘Ah, Will.’ Sucking kisses up an arched neck. ‘You could never be dull.’

Unzipped, bared to each other. Hannibal’s cock leaves sticky trails where it rubs Will’s belly. Will looks down between them, fascinated. It’s long and thick, ruddy. Hannibal’s ass is warm beneath his palms, beneath fine linen. Will tightens his grasp, controlling the slow rut. 

‘Don’t be flippant.’ Growls. ‘I’m having a goddamn revelation here.’

‘And all it took was a good single malt.’ A bruising kiss and a thorough tasting. When he raises his head, Hannibal’s eyes are black. ‘A trifle sweet for my liking but it suits you.’

‘Balances out my natural sourness, I suppose,’ Will snipes. The effect is somewhat spoiled by his inability to stop writhing.

The next moment, Hannibal’s pulling free, stalking away. Stunned, Will falls back on the couch that Hannibal picked out because he said it matched Will’s eyes. Listens to the fading footsteps. A bitter laugh, and unsteady hands reach to pour another drink.

He’s barely touched it before the footsteps return. Hannibal’s quite a sight: silvered tawny hair sticking up, blood-smeared Gucci hanging off one teeth-marked shoulder, bobbing cock sticking out of half-mast pants. Carrying what looks suspiciously like the tall bottle of olive oil that sits on their kitchen island.

‘It was all that I could find.’

Doused in relief, Will slams down the glass. Rears up and fists Hannibal’s shirt. ‘You _shit._ ’

Significant rending rids them of the final barriers.

A thud as the bottle of oil hits the rug, glugging out half its contents. A groan as slicked fingers find their target. ‘You’re sure, then?’

No words in reply - just a hand around that spectacular cock, guiding it to tease them both. 

Until teasing just won’t do. 

Until fullness and a burn that’s loved away by gentle rocking. 

Will wraps his limbs around the sweat-slick body that covers him. Pants out little ‘uh, uh’ sounds that prompt tender caresses and filthy kisses. Rocking becomes thrusting. Gets faster, deeper. Exquisite pleasure ‘right fucking there - oh, fuck. God, yes.’ Will feels it when Hannibal finds his release, harsh cries muffled. It’s wet and weird. And he knows he’s never going to get enough. 

‘What are you doing?’

The mouth on his leaking cock lends ludicrousness to the ragged question. And then there’s only rapid breathing and nails scoring into Hannibal’s scalp as the come is sucked out of him.

***

Shower number two is infinitely better. 

***

‘There’s blood in your hair.’

An arrogant brow raised. ‘There’s blood in your _ears_ , Will. How you managed that I will never -’

‘You severed his jugular.’

‘I told you to stand out of the way.’

‘Shut up.’ 

A friendly shove on the doorstep, and satisfaction that he’s managed to surprise the deadly predator. Adrenaline still coursing from the kill, Will steps into Hannibal’s orbit. It’s warm with mutual admiration and humour. And suddenly he’s nowhere near close enough. 

‘I want you.’ The whisper is punched out of him, and he squeezes his eyes shut in pathetic denial of his own conviction.

A comforting hand on his shoulder. Comfort is the last thing he wants.

‘No. Wait.’

He needs a minute. Space. A drink. Pushes Hannibal back against the cool white stone of their Cuban villa, stumbles inside.

 _We are a zero sum game. Am I insane to want to change that?_

***

‘Did you plant this stuff?’

The diamante sparkles create pretty patterns across Hannibal’s skin. Propped against the headboard of an unfamiliar (for now) bed, Will savours another sip. Enjoys it even more when Hannibal nuzzles him in an encouragement to share, though his own glass sits half-full on the side table. When he pulls back, he’s looking terribly, suspiciously pleased with himself.

‘This _stuff_ has been in the house since my great-grandfather’s time.’

Will freezes. Given that between them they’ve almost emptied the decanter…

‘How old is it, exactly?’

‘It was bottled in 1863.’ The air resonates with gloating. ‘Are you appalled?’

Levels a stern stare. ‘I was appalled when I jumped you at the door. This just pisses me off.’

But he allows the greedy tongue in his mouth, feeds off it until they’re both hard again.

‘Don’t worry. There’s another bottle in the cellar.’ Hannibal’s smile dims. ‘I will admit to a certain level of confusion, when we returned. When you… And when I thought you were running again.’

A leisurely kiss and a sigh. ‘I despised myself for becoming the cliché. I needed a moment.’

‘And Dutch courage.’

‘I told you - I was in the middle of a life-changing revelation.’ Dryness is an effective cover for shyness.

Hannibal’s hand tightens on his hip. ‘The revelation came before the whiskey?’ He sounds so damn casual, just as he always does when he’s at his most vulnerable.

No bloodied tears or literal severing to settle things this time. Just the musicality of glasses clinking. And later still, veiled by confessional darkness, a mutual spilling of adoration.

It’s a revelation to them both.


End file.
